Book 15 Chapter 17

PIERRE was conducted into the big, lighted-up dining-room. In a few minutes he heard footsteps and the princess and Natasha came into the room. Natasha was calm, though the stern, unsmiling expression had come back again now into her face. Princess Marya, Natasha, and Pierre all equally experienced that feeling of awkwardness which usually follows when a serious and deeply felt conversation is over. To continue on the same subject is impossible; to speak of trivial matters seems desecration, and to be silent is unpleasant, because one wants to talk, and this silence seems a sort of affectation. In silence they came to the table. The footmen drew back and pushed up the chairs. Pierre unfolded his cold dinner napkin, and making up his mind to break the silence he glanced at Natasha and at Princess Marya. Both had plainly reached the same decision at the same moment; in the eyes of both there gleamed a satisfaction with life, and an admission that there was gladness in it as well as sorrow.

“Do you drink vodka?” said Princess Marya, and those words at once dispelled the shadows of the past.

“Tell us about yourself,” said Princess Marya; “such incredibly marvellous stories are being told about you.”

“Yes,” answered Pierre, with the gentle smile of irony that had now become habitual with him. “I myself am told of marvels that I never dreamed of. Marya Abramovna invited me to come and see her and kept telling me what had happened to me, or ought to have happened. Stepan Stepanovitch too instructed me how I was to tell my story. Altogether I have noticed that to be an interesting person is a very easy position (I am now an interesting person); people invite me and then tell me all about it.”

Natasha smiled and was about to say something.

“We have been told that you lost two millions in Moscow. Is that true?”

“Oh, I am three times as rich,” said Pierre. In spite of the strain on his fortune, of his wife's debts, and the necessity of rebuilding, Pierre still said that he had become three times as rich.

“What I have undoubtedly gained,” he said, “is freedom …” he was beginning seriously; but on second thoughts he did not continue, feeling that it was too egoistic a subject.

“And you are building?”

“Yes, such are Savelitch's orders.”

“Tell me, you had not heard of the countess's death when you stayed in Moscow?” said Princess Marya; and she flushed crimson at once, conscious that in putting this question to him after his mention of “freedom,” she was ascribing a significance to his words which was possibly not intended.

“No,” answered Pierre, obviously unconscious of any awkwardness in the interpretation Princess Marya had put on his allusion to his freedom. “I heard of it in Orel, and you cannot imagine how it affected me. We were not an exemplary couple,” he said quickly, glancing at Natasha and detecting in her face curiosity as to how he would speak of his wife. “But her death affected me greatly. When two people quarrel, both are always in fault. And one becomes terribly aware of one's shortcomings towards any one who is no more. And then such a death … apart from friends and consolation. I felt very sorry for her,” he concluded, and noticed with satisfaction a glad look of approval on Natasha's face.

“And so you are once more an eligible parti,” said Princess Marya.

Pierre flushed suddenly crimson; and for a long while he tried not to look at Natasha. When he did venture to glance at her, her face was cold and severe, even, he fancied, disdainful.

“But did you really see and talk to Napoleon, as we have been told?” said Princess Marya.

Pierre laughed.

“Not once, never. Every one always imagines that to be a prisoner is equivalent to being on a visit to Napoleon. I never saw, never even heard anything about him. I was in much lower company.”

Supper was over, and Pierre, who had at first refused to talk about his captivity, was gradually drawn into telling them about it.

“But it is true that you stayed behind to kill Napoleon?” Natasha asked him with a slight smile. “I guessed that at the time when we met you by the Suharev Tower: do you remember?”

Pierre owned that it was so; and from that question was led on by Princess Marya's, and still more by Natasha's, questions to give a detailed account of his adventures.

At first he told his story with that tone of gentle irony that he always had now towards men and especially towards himself. But as he came to describe the horrors and sufferings he had seen, he was drawn on unawares, and began to speak with the suppressed emotion of a man living again in imagination through the intense impressions of the past.

Princess Marya looked from Pierre to Natasha with a gentle smile. In all he told them she saw only Pierre and his goodness. Natasha, her head supported in her hand, and her face changing continually with the story, watched Pierre, never taking her eyes off him, and was in imagination passing through all he told her with him. Not only her eyes, but her exclamations and the brief questions she put showed Pierre that she understood from his words just what he was trying to convey by them. It was evident that she understood, not only what he said, but also what he would have liked to say and could not express in words. The episode of the child and of the woman in whose defence he was taken prisoner, Pierre described in this way. “It was an awful scene, children abandoned, some in the midst of the fire … Children were dragged out before my eyes … and women, who had their things pulled off them, earrings torn off …”

Pierre flushed and hesitated. “Then a patrol came up and all who were not pillaging, all the men, that is, they took prisoner. And me with them.”

“I am sure you are not telling us all; I am sure you did something,” said Natasha, and after a moment's pause, “something good.”

Pierre went on with his story. When he came to the execution, he would have passed over the horrible details of it, but Natasha insisted on his leaving nothing out.

Pierre was beginning to tell them about Karataev; he had risen from the table and was walking up and down, Natasha following him with her eyes.

“No,” he said, stopping short in his story, “you cannot understand what I learned from that illiterate man—that simple creature.”

“No, no, tell us,” said Natasha. “Where is he now?”

“He was killed almost before my eyes.”

And Pierre began to describe the latter part of their retreat, Karataev's illness (his voice shook continually) and then his death.

Pierre told the tale of his adventures as he had never thought of them before. He saw now as it were a new significance in all he had been through. He experienced now in telling it all to Natasha that rare happiness given to men by women when they listen to them—not by clever women, who, as they listen, are either trying to remember what they are told to enrich their intellect and on occasion to repeat it, or to adapt what is told them to their own ideas and to bring out in haste the clever comments elaborated in their little mental factory. This rare happiness is given only by those real women, gifted with a faculty for picking out and assimilating all that is best in what a man shows them. Natasha, though herself unconscious of it, was all rapt attention; she did not lost one word, one quaver of the voice, one glance, one twitching in the facial muscles, one gesture of Pierre's. She caught the word before it was uttered and bore it straight to her open heart, divining the secret import of all Pierre's spiritual travail.

Princess Marya understood his story and sympathised with him, but she was seeing now something else that absorbed all her attention. She saw the possibility of love and happiness between Natasha and Pierre. And this idea, which struck her now for the first time, filled her heart with gladness.

It was three o'clock in the night. The footmen, with melancholy and severe faces, came in with fresh candles, but no one noticed them.

Pierre finished his story. With shining, eager eyes Natasha still gazed intently and persistently at him, as though she longed to understand something more, that perhaps he had left unsaid. In shamefaced and happy confusion, Pierre glanced at her now and then, and was thinking what to say now to change the subject. Princess Marya was mute. It did not strike any of them that it was three o'clock in the night, and time to be in bed.

“They say: sufferings are misfortunes,” said Pierre. “But if at once, this minute, I was asked, would I remain what I was before I was taken prisoner, or go through it all again, I should say, for God's sake let me rather be a prisoner and eat horseflesh again. We imagine that as soon as we are torn out of our habitual path all is over, but it is only the beginning of something new and good. As long as there is life, there is happiness. There is a great deal, a great deal before us. That I say to you,” he said, turning to Natasha.

“Yes, yes,” she said, answering something altogether different, “and I too would ask for nothing better than to go through it all again.”

Pierre looked intently at her.

“Yes, and nothing more,” Natasha declared.

“Not true, not true,” cried Pierre. “I am not to blame for being alive and wanting to live; and you the same.”

All at once Natasha let her head drop into her hands, and burst into tears.

“What is it, Natasha?” said Princess Marya.

“Nothing, nothing.” She smiled through her tears to Pierre. “Good-night, it's bedtime.”

Pierre got up, and took leave.

Natasha, as she always did, went with Princess Marya into her bedroom. They talked of what Pierre had told them. Princess Marya did not give her opinion of Pierre. Natasha, too, did not talk of him.

“Well, good-night, Marie,” said Natasha. “Do you know I am often afraid that we don't talk of him” (she meant Prince Andrey), “as though we were afraid of desecrating our feelings, and so we forget him.”

Princess Marya sighed heavily, and by this sigh acknowledged the justice of Natasha's words; but she did not in words agree with her.

“Is it possible to forget?” she said.

“I was so glad to tell all about it to-day; it was hard and painful, and yet I was glad to … very glad,” said Natasha; “I am sure that he really loved him. That was why I told him … it didn't matter my telling him?” she asked suddenly, blushing.

“Pierre? Oh, no! How good he is,” said Princess Marya.

“Do you know, Marie,” said Natasha, suddenly, with a mischievous smile, such as Princess Marya had not seen for a long while on her face. “He has become so clean and smooth and fresh; as though he had just come out of a bath; do you understand? Out of a moral bath. Isn't it so?”

“Yes,” said Princess Marya. “He has gained a great deal.”

“And his short jacket, and his cropped hair; exactly as though he had just come out of a bath … papa used sometimes …”

“I can understand how he” (Prince Andrey) “cared for no one else as he did for him,” said Princess Marya.

“Yes, and he is so different from him. They say men are better friends when they are utterly different. That must be true; he is not a bit like him in anything, is he?”

“Yes, and he is such a splendid fellow.”

“Well, good-night,” answered Natasha. And the same mischievous smile lingered a long while as though forgotten on her face.

她们请皮埃尔来到一间辉煌明亮的大厅；几分钟后，听见了脚步声，公爵小姐偕同娜塔莎走了进来。娜塔莎的脸上虽然没有笑容，现在又显露出严峻的表情，但她的心情已经平静下来了。玛丽亚公爵小姐、娜塔莎和皮埃尔都同样地感觉到，在进行了一场严肃的、推心置腹的交谈之后，都流露着常有的那种局促不安，要继续先前的谈话已经不可能了；谈一些琐屑的事情——又都不愿意，而沉默——又都不愉快，因为大家都还想说，而这种沉默显得有点装模作样。他们默默地走近餐桌，侍者们把椅子拉开又推向前。皮埃尔打开冰凉的餐巾并下决心打破这种沉默，抬起眼望着娜塔莎和公爵小姐。显然，她们俩也在同时作出了同样的决定：在她们俩人的眼睛里都显露出对生活已感到满足的神情，也认定了，除了爱恋，还应当有欢乐。

“您喝伏特加吗，伯爵？”玛利亚公爵小姐说，这句话突然驱散了原先的阴影。

“您也说说有关自己的事吧，”玛丽亚公爵小姐说，“大家都在谈论您的那些令人难以置信的奇迹呢。”

“是的，”皮埃尔面带现在已习惯了的微笑，以温和的讥笑口吻回答道。“现在有许多人甚至当着我本人讲些连我自己做梦也没有梦见过的所谓的奇迹。玛丽亚·阿布拉莫夫娜请我去，她对我讲述了我所遇到的事情，或者是我应当遇到的事情。斯捷潘·斯捷潘内奇也指点我应当怎样对别人讲。总而言之。我发觉，做一个有趣的人是很舒适的（我现在是一个有趣的人）；大家都请我，对我讲述我本人的故事。”

娜塔莎笑了笑，想说点什么。

“我们听说，”玛丽亚公爵小姐拦过去说，“您在莫斯科损失了两百万。这是真的吗？”

“而我比从前富了两倍。”皮埃尔说，尽管他决心偿还妻子欠下的债务和重建他的住宅，他因此家境已经改变，但他还坚持说他反而比从前富了两倍。

“我确实赢得的，”他说，“那就是自由……”他开始认真地说；但是，他觉察出这个话题太自私，他就不再往下说了。

“您要盖房子吗？”

“是的，萨韦利伊奇要这么办。”

“请告诉我们，当你还在莫斯科的时候，是不是还不知道伯爵夫人已经去世的消息？”玛丽亚公爵小姐说完后，立刻脸就涨红了，她发觉，在他说了他是自由的之后，她的话对于他没有任何意义。

“不知道，”皮埃尔回答道，他显然并不认为玛丽亚公爵小姐对他提到的自由的理解使他难堪。“我是在奥廖尔听到的，您难以想象，这一消息使我多么震惊。我们并不是一对模范夫妻，”他说得很快，说此话时向娜塔莎看了一眼，他从她的脸部表情发觉，她对他给予妻子的评价十分好奇。“但是她的死却使我非常震惊。两个人吵嘴时，往往双方都有错。而我的过错，在一个已故去的人的面前忽然变得更加严重。而且死得那么……没有朋友，没有安慰。我非常、非常难过。”他说完后，发觉娜塔莎的脸上露出赞赏的表情，他感到宽慰。

“是啊，您又是光棍一条了，可以另娶妻室了。”玛丽亚公爵小姐说。

皮埃尔突然脸涨得通红，好一阵子不敢看娜塔莎一眼。当他鼓足勇气看她时，她的脸色冷冰冰的、严肃的，甚至是鄙视的。

“是不是像许多人对我们讲过的。你确实见过拿破仑，还和他讲过话呢？”玛丽亚公爵小姐问道。

皮埃尔哈哈大笑。

“没有，从来都没有过的事。人们总觉得，当了俘虏的人，就会成为拿破仑的客人。我非但没有见到过他，甚至没听见过有人谈及他。我和所有被俘的人在一起，我们的处境相当恶劣。

晚饭后，皮埃尔渐渐讲起了他当俘虏的那段经历，这段往事是他开始时极不愿意讲的。

“您留下来果真是为了要刺杀拿破仑吗？”娜塔莎微微一笑向他问道。“我们在苏哈列夫塔遇见你时，我就猜到了；您还记得吗？”

皮埃尔承认确有其事，于是从这个问题开始，在玛丽亚公爵小姐、特别是在娜塔莎所提问题的引导下，他逐渐详细地讲起了他的冒险故事。

他在开始讲述的时候，带有一种现在对人，特别是对自己常有的一种讥笑的、温和的眼神；但是讲到后来，当他讲到他所看见的恐怖和痛苦的情景时，他强忍住人们在回忆那些感受强烈印象时常有的激动心情，他忘掉了自我，讲得入了神。

玛丽亚公爵小姐面露出温和的微笑，时而看一眼皮埃尔，时而看一眼娜塔莎。她在这一整个故事中所看见的，只有皮埃尔和他的那付善良的心肠。娜塔莎用手支着头，脸上的表情随着故事情节的变化而变化着，她一刻也不停地注视着皮埃尔，显然，她同他一起感受着他所讲述的故事。不仅是她的眼神，而且还有她的感叹声和简短的提问，都向皮埃尔表明，她从他所讲述的故事，她已经明白了的事情正是他想要表达出来的。很明显，她不仅明白了他所讲述的事情，而且还明白了他想表达出来而又难以用语言表达出来的东西。在讲到他为了保护妇女和儿童而被捕的那个插曲时，皮埃尔是这样讲的：

“这是可怕的场面，孩子们被乱扔，有一些被扔进火堆里……我亲眼目睹一个孩子被从火里拖出来……妇女们的东西被抢走，耳环被扯下来……”

皮埃尔红着脸，犹豫了一下。

“这时来了巡逻队，他们把未遭抢劫的人，所有的农民都捉走了，我也被捉去了。”

“您大概没有把您的经历全告诉我们；您一定做了什么……”娜塔莎稍稍停顿了一下，接着说道，“做了好事。”

皮埃尔继续往下讲，当他讲到行刑的时候，他想避开那些可怕的细节；然而娜塔莎要求他不要把任何事情遗漏掉。

皮埃尔开始讲述卡拉搭耶夫的事（他已经从饭桌前站起身，在室内来回不停地走动着，娜塔莎的眼睛一直盯着他），他站住了。

“不，你们很难理解，我从这个目不识丁的，过于忠厚的人那里学到了多少东西。”

“不，不，您说，”娜塔莎说。“他现在在哪里？”

“他差不多是在我面前被打死了。”于是皮埃尔开始讲述他们撤退的最后一些时日的情况，讲述了卡拉塔耶夫的病和他被枪杀的情景（他的声音不停地颤抖着）。

皮埃尔在讲述那些历经危险的故事时，好像他从来还不曾回忆过这些事情。他现在仿佛看见，他所经历的事情有了新的意义。现在，当他把这一切讲给娜塔莎听的时候，他感受到女人在听男人讲话时给人一种少有的愉快，——愚笨的女人在听别人讲话时，做出好像是全讲贯注在倾听的样子，或者干脆把人家对她所讲的都死死记住，用这些来充填自己的头脑，一遇有机会就学舌一番，或者把人家对自己讲过的话和在她们那知识贫乏的头脑里想出来的自以为聪明的言辞，赶快告诉别人；而现在这种快乐，却是一位真正的女人所给予的，这种女人善于选择和吸收那种只有男人身上才具有的一切最美好的东西。娜塔莎自己一点也不知道，她是那样全神贯注；无论是一个字、声音的颤动、眼神、面部肌肉的每一颤动、以及每一个姿势——所有这些，她都不让漏过。她在揣测皮埃尔内心活动的秘密意义时，能一下猜出对方没有说出来的话，并把他们纳入她那开阔的胸襟。

玛丽亚公爵小姐领会他的故事，她同情他，但是，她现在看见了另外一种东西，这种东西吸引了她的全部注意力；她看到了在娜塔莎和皮埃尔之间存在着有爱情和幸福的可能性。而这个第一次闯入她头脑的思想，使她从心底感觉得高兴。

已经是凌晨三点钟了。侍者们表情严峻、忧郁，他们进屋更换了蜡烛，可是没有一个人注意到他们。

皮埃尔讲完了自己的故事。娜塔莎圆睁着一对明亮亮的、兴奋的大眼睛，仍然痴呆呆地盯着皮埃尔，就好像想要弄明白他似乎有可能还没有说出来的那些话。皮埃尔有点局促不安，他感到幸福，又有点羞怯，不时看上她一眼，他想说点什么，把话题引开。玛丽亚公爵小姐默不作声。谁也不曾想到，已经快到凌晨三点钟了，该睡觉了。

“大家都说：不幸、苦难，”皮埃尔说，“如果是现在，就是此时此刻有人问我：您是愿意还是像被俘之前那样呢，或者是从头把那一切再经历一番呢？看在上帝的份上，别再一次当俘虏和只吃马肉了。我们设想，我们一旦离开了走熟了的道路，就一切都完了；可是新的、更好的东西在这里才刚开头。只要有生活，就有幸福。在前面还有很多、很多。这是我对您说的。”他转过身对娜塔莎说。

“是的，是的，”她回答了一句完全不同的话，她说，“我什么都不希望，只希望把那一切从头再经历一遍。”

皮埃尔凝视着她。

“是的，我再不希望别的。”娜塔莎肯定地说。

“不是真的，不是真的，”皮埃尔叫喊道，“我没有罪过，我活下来了，而且还要活下去；而您也一样。”

娜塔莎突然低下了头，双手捂住脸哭起来。

“你怎么啦，娜塔莎？”玛丽亚公爵小姐说。

“没有什么，没有什么。”她含着泪对皮埃尔微微一笑，“再见吧，该睡觉了。”

皮埃尔起身告辞。

玛丽亚公爵小姐和娜塔莎同往常一样，一同走进卧室。她们谈了一会儿皮埃尔听讲述的事情。玛丽亚公爵小姐没有谈她对皮埃尔的意见。娜塔莎也没有谈及他。

“好了，再见，玛丽，”娜塔莎说，“你要知道，我常常害怕，我们要是不谈他（安德烈公爵），好像是我们唯恐伤害了我们的感情，我们这样就把他淡忘了。”

玛丽亚公爵小姐深深地叹了口气，这种叹息声表明了娜塔莎的话是对的；然而，她所说出来的话又不同意她的意见。

“难道当真能忘记吗？”她说。

“我今天痛痛快快地把一切都说出来了；我的心情既沉重又痛苦，然而却感到痛快，非常痛快，”娜塔莎说，“我确信，安德烈公爵确实爱他。因此我才讲给他听……我也没有对他讲什么，是吗？”她突然红了脸，她问道。

“是皮埃尔吗？噢，没有什么，他这个人太好了。”玛丽亚公爵小姐说。

“你要知道，玛丽，”娜塔莎说，突然从她脸上露出了顽皮的笑容，玛丽亚公爵小姐从她脸上好久都没有看到过这种笑容了。“他已经变得是那么干净，那么光彩，那么新鲜，就好像刚从浴室里出来一样，你明白我的意思吗？从精神上来说，他就像刚刚从浴室里出来一样，的确如此。”

“是的，”玛丽亚公爵小姐说，“他变得多了。”

“那一身短礼服和剪短了的头发，的确像刚从浴室出来……爸爸往往……”

“我明白，他（安德烈公爵）从来没有像喜欢他那样喜欢过别的人。”玛丽亚公爵小姐说。

“是的，他和他各有不相同的特点。人们说，各有其特点的两个男人容易交成朋友。这个话应该是有其道理的。他们两人之间在任何方面都不相似，不是吗？”

“是的，他太好了。”

“好了，再见。”娜塔莎说。那顽皮的微笑，好像久已遗忘了似的，长时间地停留在她的脸上。